25 Reasons That Writers Are Bug Fuck Nuts

THIS IS ALL TRUE. Except maybe the part about caffeine. I don’t ingest a lot of caffeine. Largely because it doesn’t seem to work on me. I long for the kind of pep-inducing can’t-sleep manic energy I have seen it induce in others. But in my case, no luck. So. That bit of this article is totally untrue in my case. Also not really into cat videos. Just so we’re clear.

But all true. And you should read Chuck’s explanation so you… well, I was going to say ‘understand’, but I’m thinking it’s possibly more like ‘run away and never speak to me again’. But, you know, at least we’ll all be on the same page about the severed head thing…

1. We Destroy Our Imaginary Friends

Authors invent people. Out of thin air. We give ourselves — and by proxy, the audience — reasons to care about these people. They become our imaginary friends. Then we take our imaginary friends and fuck them over ten ways till Tuesday. “This is Dave. We all like Dave. Good hair. Nice teeth. We can all relate to Dave. Uh-oh! Dave’s wife just left him. Stole the kids. And now he’s being hunted by a serial killer from the moon! HA HA HA HA SUCK A DICK DAVE.”

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5. Quiet Loners

Whenever they find some whackaloon with a collection of severed heads in his freezer, they always trot out the neighbors and you get that classic line: “He was always so quiet.” And the assumption becomes, oh, that seemingly nice-and-quiet chap next door needed his quiet time because he was too busy with his hobby of decapitating dudes. On the other hand: hey, maybe him being quiet and alone all the time made him crazy. Maybe you spend too long cooped up with yourself the carpet starts moving and the wallpaper shifts and the room starts to whisper, You know what would be awesome? A sweet-ass collection of severed heads. Get on that. This is probably a good time to remind you that writers happen to spend a lot of time alone and cooped up with themselves. Just, uhh, putting that out there. What, this old thing? Just a hacksaw.

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12. “I Got A Bad Case Of The Penmonkeys, Man”

We’re addicts for our wordsmithy. Over time, it just happens. One day you’ve been writing so long that when a day comes you don’t put words to paper it feels like that space between your heart and your guts is filled with a cluster of bitey eels that want out, and the only way to give them egress is to start writing again. We’re word-junkies, man. Ink-slingers. Fiction fiends. The only cure is another taste of that sweet story.